I suppose that my largest concern right now is that I do not want my writing to simply become a diarrhea of any thought that comes into my mind. I want it that all the effort I am about to put into the career (which I continuously reaffirm as my goal) produces some writing of actual substance. Alright, perhaps not simply some, but a whole lot of it. Unfortunately, despite how much it is that I may desire, I cannot be certain of what it is that I am about to embark upon. Perhaps that should be the thrilling part about this journey; or, simply the most frightening aspect of it all; or, maybe they’re really just the same thing (as cliche as that overly simplified comment may be).
In the years before college (as it is the event in my life that for now everything exists in relation to) I spent almost all of my time reading novels and carrying a notebook in which I could write. Described as an avid reader at one point, but never really being able to describe myself as such (for f-ck’s sake, I don’t even think I knew what the word meant then), all I knew was that I enjoyed playing with words and the power that I believed they possessed.
At times when I try to create a narrative of myself as a reader and storyteller, I find that I can trace it all the way back to when I was about four. I had seen the “Wizard of Oz” and wrote a illustrated story based around a tornado coming to town. I don’t remember much of it anymore, only that there was a lot of black circular movement from drawing that tornado.
The stories and writing provided a means of escape, and as Titania so aptly states in “Books of Magic”: “They do not exist; and thus they are all that matter.” (For an incredibly long time, even after entering college, I carried this quotation as a sort of mantra, constantly reflecting back on it because I felt that it captured so well the importance of make believe, which I felt held more value than gold. I’m not sure if that has necessarily changed.) Perhaps instead of narrative, a better word choice would be “explanation”, since that is what attempts seem to be aimed for. Dorothy does find the answer to her wishes over the rainbow, doesn’t she?
Anyway: When I arrived at college everything as it was was put to a stop. My reading lists became that provided by my professors, and to an extent I just stopped really reading. Reading for myself seemed incorrect when I had too many social gatherings to attend and materials to read for my classes. Alright, the second may have been a hollow concern, but the first certainly was on my mind. After my first couple of classes, I decided that my college education would be about laying down the foundation of what was to come. I would learn how to read so that I could read and write for myself. I’m thankful to be able to report that I learned much in doing both, and have landed myself in this current state: where I was before I went to college, with just a touch of insight.
Let’s hope that I’ve sowed the ground enough.
- Spider